The Sword of Fire

CHAPTER FOUR

After stopping in Manhattan for coffee and switching seats, Kim Taylor was at the wheel as they entered Boston. This meant a measured and slow journey over the bridge and into North End before finally driving into the Seaport District.

“Take note, Limey,” she said with a feigned scowl. “This is where we kicked your asses.”

“Why, oh why, would you abuse helpless donkeys?”

“Not funny, but seriously — this is where we beat you once and for good.”

“Not really.”

“How’d you figure that out?”

“The way I see it,” he said trying to suppress a grin, “you weren’t technically independent until 1776, so those guys throwing tea into the harbor in 1774…”

“16 December 1773.”

“Exactly — they were technically British.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Afraid so — technically we were beaten by ourselves, so in a weird sort of way the British won the War of Independence and then decided to become American afterwards.”

Kim shifted a little in her seat and cleared her throat to speak as she slapped his shoulder. “You know, talk like that might technically be treason.”

Hawke laughed for the first time since they had started their journey.

As they finally reached the Boston Metropolitan Museum the sky had darkened and was threatening a heavy downpour. Not unusual for Boston at this time of year, and Kim had dressed for it back in DC. Now, she snuggled down into her scarf as they crossed the road and walked up the steps to the main entrance.

The museum was large and popular, but it was midweek and the place was relatively quiet. They walked to the front desk where a woman with short blonde hair met them with a smile and a brief introduction. “I’m Melissa Miller,” she began. “I’m the Curator of the Celtic Studies section. I gather you’re interested in seeing the new medieval Welsh manuscript?”

“That’s right,” Kim said.

Melissa stopped for a moment and cocked her head a little, staring at Kim. “Have we met?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You look sort of familiar,” the woman said.

Kim sighed inwardly. As part of his personal security detail, she had been photographed with the President on countless occasions, and just a few hours ago she had been standing behind him when he gave a short press conference on the peace talks with Korea that he was trying to get off the ground. The last thing on Earth that she wanted to do was tell this woman she had probably seen her last at the inauguration of the US President — when she had stood a few feet behind him and seven million people were tuned into every second of it on their TVs and iPads.

“She was a child actress,” Hawke said in a flash.

“Ah!” A look or recognition appeared on the curator’s face. “That must be it.”

“Thanks, Joe,” Kim said quietly.

“She mostly did toilet roll commercials,” he said.

“Oh…”

Kim spoke through gritted teeth. “I said thanks, Joe.”

“And who could forget that one about the drain cleaner?”

Kim elbowed him hard in the ribs and Hawke stifled a grunt of pain, but Melissa Miller had already turned and was on her way toward a long corridor.

“If you’ll just follow me,” she said over her shoulder, “the item you wish to see is right along here.”

“I thought it was on display?” Kim said.

“No, not yet. We’re very grateful to the previous owner’s estate for making it available to us — but at a price.” She said this last word with a weary sigh.

“And who was the previous owner?” Hawke said.

“I’m not at liberty to divulge information about our donors or their estates.”

Hawke and Kim exchanged a glance — that was them told.

Melissa opened a door leading to the archives and after shuffling down a short series of steps they reached a locked room. The curator deftly turned the key in the lock and then opened the door. They were met with the smell of musty books. “It’s right here in this case.”

She opened the case and revealed what Hawke and Kim had both expected — a worn-out, battered-looking old manuscript with a hefty leather cover, crumbling at the edges. On its front cover was a bevelled Celtic triptych, scuffed and worn and showing its incredible age.

The former commando stared at the manuscript and was massively unimpressed. It wasn’t much bigger than a hardback and appeared to be in three parts, held together with twine. “That’s it?”

“But of course,” Melissa said. “Why do you ask?”

“Looks like a manky old pile of newspaper.”

Melissa Miller’s eyebrows did the talking but then Kim stepped in. “We’re very grateful for this, Dr Miller, and I think it looks absolutely amazing. To think of all that history!”

Melissa looked down her nose at Kim Taylor. “Quite.”

“I thought it was the Book of Gold,” Hawke said, not the Books of Gold. Why are there three of them?”

“It’s a triad. It was written in three parts over many years, but sadly some of the final section has been lost to history.” she said. “Now, as I understand it you wish to view this manuscript before it goes on display here at the museum.” She looked at Kim. “Are you an academic researcher of some kind?”

“No, I’m not.”

Melissa looked Hawke up and down, dwelling for a moment on his scuffed boots. “I presume you’re not either then?”

“Not exactly…”

“Please don’t be offended,” she said haughtily.

“Offended?” Hawke said cheerily. “Hardly, I’d have been offended if you had presumed I was an academic.”

“Well, I…”

Hawke broke in before she could finish her sentence. “But I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. We’re not here simply to view the manuscript, but to make an offer to purchase it from the museum.”

“Oh goodness, no,” she said. It was the longest ‘no’ Hawke had ever heard. “This isn’t for sale to the… public.”

“You might be pleasantly surprised by the price we can offer,” he said.

“No, I’m afraid it’s not for sale.”

As she spoke, Kim picked up the manuscript and instantly all three books fell apart from one another. “I’m so sorry!” Kim picked one of them up and held it in her hands.

“My goodness, what have you done?” Dr Miller said, fussing around and picking up the other two books. I’m going to have to ask you to leave or…”

Hawke heard the sound of gunfire coming from above them in the museum. He looked from Kim to a terrified Melissa Miller. “I know you want us to leave but setting armed gunmen on us is a bit over the top, don’t you think?”

“What’s going on?” Melissa said, clutching the manuscripts to her chest and starting to hyperventilate. “Is this some kind of robbery?”

“Looks that way,” Kim said. “I’d bet my last dollar on them wanting that manuscript as well.”

“Over my dead body!” she snapped.

“This way,” Hawke said. “We’re fish in a barrel while we’re down here in the archives.”

Kim, who was still holding one crumbling part of the manuscript in her hands, nodded in agreement.

Hawke moved to the door and after checking it was clear they jogged up the steps and returned to the main museum. The first thing he saw was a security guard across the lobby raising his handgun and ordering the attackers to lower their guns. Their response was to open fire on him with what sounded like at least three automatic weapons and perforate him like a teabag. His shredded body slammed back into the front desk and slid down into a bloody heap on the floor.

“Richards!” Melissa screamed. “Oh my God!”

She dashed over to him with the manuscripts still clutched against her body.

“Get down!” Hawke yelled.

Diving down beside the guard, Melissa tried pathetically to revive him, but Hawke and Kim had both seen enough gunshot wounds to know he’d have been dead before he hit the deck.

“She’s got the Book of Gold!” one of the men yelled, and pointed at Melissa.

Hawke saw the man first — slicked-back, black hair, a lean, tanned face, aquiline nose and dark eyes like sparkling, polished obsidian. He was holding a Beretta M12 submachine gun and without giving any warning he fired on the museum curator.

“No!” Kim shouted.

The rounds tore Melissa Miller to pieces and she released the mansucripts before collapsing on top of them. Before either Hawke or Kim could move, the man with the submachine gun ordered two more men forward. One of them booted the curator’s dead body over while the other snatched up the bloodied manuscripts. The man with the M12 fired short bursts over their heads to keep Hawke and Kim pinned down in the archive room stairwell.

“Who are they?” Kim said.

“Hard to tell,” Hawke said. “The M12s are used by over twenty countries, including the US.”

Another guard ran forward and fired on the gunmen. He killed one of them before the others turned their guns on him. The guard was faster than his colleague and returned fire while diving for cover behind the front desk. The robbers’ bullets streaked along his right leg just as he vanished behind the desk.

Hawke pointed at the gunmen. “Heads up — they’re pulling out!”

The men blasted a hole in a large window at the front of the museum and leaped through it. After jogging down the steps leading to the street they turned north and started to sprint away from the destruction.

Kim, who was still holding the first section of the ancient text in her hands, gave Hawke a concerned glance. “They have the other two parts of the manuscript, Joe!”

“In that case it looks like the chase is on!” he said.